Return
by RosieCotton3791
Summary: Of Maglor Fëanorian it was written: "Thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves." But of Olórin it was written that "He was the friend of all the Children of Ilúvatar, and took pity on their sorrows; and those who listened to him awoke from despair and put away the imaginations of darkness." What would have transpired had these two met?


Disclaimer: Due to Christmas shopping, the funds I set aside to purchase the rights to the Silmarillion have been seriously depleted. Therefore I am forced to postpone the happy announcement that I am now the proud owner of the Silmarillion. :(

;)

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**Return**

Seven more ships were to leave for Valinor that day. Seven; one for each thousand years the elf standing on shore watching them had lived. Years filled with suffering, heartbreak, and pain, where happiness had visited so few times.

He watched the first white swan-ship until it disappeared among the swelling waves of the Sundering Sea. How he ached to have gone with them, to leave Arda behind, to forget the death of his father and brothers. Yet he was bound here as surely if he had been chained by the curse of his Oath.

_Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,__  
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,  
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,  
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,  
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,  
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,  
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,  
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,  
finding keepeth or afar casteth  
a Silmaril. This swear we all:  
death we will deal him ere Day's ending,  
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,  
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting  
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.  
On the holy mountain hear in witness  
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!_

Again, the words of the oath passed thought Maglor's mind—Maglor, the last of Feanor's sons.

He wandered the seaside, the waves lapping gently at his feet. But however calm they might appear, they were calling to him, willing him to follow the longing of every elf whose time had come.

_Return to Valinor. Return to Valinor_.

The call was in every seagull's cry, every crest of foam, every shell which held the echo of Ulmo's voice. He could not escape it. He could not surrender to it.

Maglor shook his head, dispelling the haunting memory of the Oath. He unclenched his hands, the burn blackened palms hidden by a simple pair of grey gloves.

Quietly, then picking up volume, he began to sing. His voice, unrivaled in beauty by any in Arda, he now lifted in remorse, singing the Noldolantë, the lament for his fallen kin at Alqualondë.

As he rounded a bend in the cliff which ran along the beach, his song broke off suddenly, the last notes snatched away by the mischievous breezes which danced in his dark hair.

His attention had been drawn by a bent figure sitting on a rock in the sand. The stranger's hair and long beard were the same shade of silver as his garments and an oddly shaped pointed hat rested on the sand beside him.

Maglor hesitated, debating whether to continue or turn back. The grey clad person didn't give him the chance to decide.

"Good morning," the old man called cheerfully. His voice was pleasant, not hoarse or weary, yet holding the knowledge of centuries.

"Mae govannen, (well met)," Maglor replied cautiously.

"Indeed. I believe so."

Maglor closed the distance between them. He had been sure that the stranger was human due to his beard, but as Maglor looked more closely he realized there was something distinctly _not mortal_about the twinkling grey eyes.

"You are no elf," Maglor began, with a suspicious glance at the gnarled staff resting against the man's knee. It looked innocent enough, but as one of the elves who had seen the light of the Trees, Maglor could sense its power. "Who—and what—are you?"

The elder chuckled. "I have many names; Mithrandir, Tharkûn, Incánus… but usually I go by Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey, if you want to know. What I am—that is a more difficult question, Maglor Feanorian."

The elf started. "How is it you know my name?"

"You do not recognize me in this altered visage, but we have met before. Many years have passed since then and you have likewise passed out of the thoughts of many, though Elrond remembers you."

Maglor glanced up. "You know Elrond?" The falter in his voice did not go unnoticed by the man.

"I do. He will never forget you, nor will Elros."

Maglor smiled faintly, remembering. Alas, just as quickly as his face lightened, a shadow entered his eyes. He dropped down on the sand beside Gandalf, turning his face away. "It would be best for them to forget me. I am not worthy to be cherished in their minds."

"Who said you were cherished?"

Maglor's eyes snapped back to Gandalf, anger sparking in their depths. To his surprise the man's face was crinkled in a smile and he reached out and patted the elf's shoulder reassuringly.

The movement startled Maglor and he flinched back instinctively. The man didn't seem to notice. He was occupied in pulling a long-stemmed pipe and leather pouch from the folds of his robe. Out of the pouch came a sweet-smelling herb and the bowl of the pipe was soon filled. Maglor wondered how he was to light it without a fire when Gandalf touched his finger to the bowl. A green flame appeared at his fingertip and instantly the pipe ignited.

Maglor's brows furrowed slightly. "And what does Elrond call your kind?"

Puffing contemplatively on his pipe, Gandalf paused before answering, "A wizard." He blew a perfect smoke ring, blue in color, making Maglor's eyebrows lower even more. The ring floated smoothly out over the sea, unaffected by the frolicking breezes. "The Old Toby," Gandalf murmured, "best pipe weed in the whole Shire."

"The Shire?"

"Ah, yes. The Shire," was all the answer that Maglor obtained.

A silvery trumpet sounded far away, signaling the departure of the second elven ship. Both wizard and elf watched in silence as the gleaming white vessel appeared and vanished on the horizon.

"You should go with them," the wizard spoke suddenly, jolting Maglor out of his melancholy reverie.

"If you claim to know me so well, you should know that is impossible," Maglor replied bitterly.

"I do know you. It is not impossible."

"My Oath binds me—"

"You _Oath_binds you no more than your pride does. Besides, what is left to hold you to it? One Silmaril is a star, the other blessing the ocean floor with its beauty. The last… You can hardly wage a war against the earth, sea, and sky, can you? Especially since you gave the jewels to them freely, if not willingly?"

Maglor started to his feet and strode to the ocean's edge. His heart pounded violently in his ears. "Do not give me false hope where there is none," he said harshly.

"On the contrary, my boy," the wizard countered, "If my long years of traveling Arda have taught me one thing, it is that there is always hope, even if we are too stubborn to see it."

"Stubborn?" Maglor laughed mirthlessly. "Gandalf, if there was any hope, however frail—had it been no more than a wisp of fog that disappears at a breath, I would have grasped for it."

"Well apparently you did not." The wizard stated bluntly, taking another puff of his pipe.

Again, silence lapsed between them. The sea continued its everlasting rhythm, sparkling in the sun rising behind them. It washed up to touch the tips of Maglor's boots, but he remained rooted to the spot. His hands, buried in the flowing folds of his sleeves, were burning again.

"But it isn't really _your_Oath is it?"

Inside, Maglor crumbled. A silver tear trickled out the corner of his eye and he did not brush it away. "It is not," he whispered.

The wizard planted his staff in the sand and eased himself up. He came up to stand beside Maglor, the waves lapping at the threadbare hem of his grey robe.

"Maedhros was wrong, you know," Gandalf said.

"He was wrong and I am weak," Maglor replied, "Weak and afraid. We disobeyed a summons from the Valar in our fear. The _Valar_, Gandalf! The Silmarils are gone, yes, but our deeds, _my_deeds, remain to haunt me—the kinslayings, our desertion of Fingolfin. I fear the punishment more than I did when Maedhros was alive. But what haunts me most is that I deserve it." Several tears had joined the first, sliding down Maglor's cheeks. The wind whipped them away but more took their place.

"There is something called mercy, my boy," Gandalf said.

Maglor shook his head. "Would the Valar have mercy on one who has given none?"

"Now that is not entirely true. Shall I name off your acts of repentance and mercy for you? There are several."

"But not enough."

"You should let the Valar be the judge of that, but even above them, Ilúvatar. Besides, it is the little things, small acts of kindness and love that keep the darkness as bay. Elrond has spoken to me of his years with you. How you forged his first sword and taught him the ancient tales of Valinor. I remember Elrond telling me of an unfortunate mishap with one of your harps, and how you never scolded him for it."

Maglor smiled through his tears and abruptly cover his face with his hands.

Gandalf reached out and rested a worn, caring hand on the elf's trembling shoulder. "Your life has been one of hardship and pain, but there have been moments of happiness in it. Moments of compassion and, yes, love. You have seen more suffering in your lifetime than anyone should. Yet you are alive and your brothers are gone. Why do you think that is?"

Maglor shook his head, still shielding it, ashamed of his tears yet helpless to contain them any longer.

The wizard took Maglor's hands and gently pulled them away from his face. He took the elf by the shoulders and forced the heartbroken eyes to look into his. "It is because you have a strength none of your brothers possessed," Gandalf said. "Use that strength now. Return to Valinor. There will be punishment for your deeds, I won't deny that, but don't think that the Valar will cast you beyond the Circles of the World when out of all of your family, you are the one most worthy of forgiveness. There will come a day when the light of the Two Trees will be restored and it will be your _father_that restores them. What lessons he failed to learn in life he has learned in death. He will be forgiven. Now don't you think that it would be rather unjust to forgive the father and withhold mercy from the son?"

That was too much. Maglor sank to his knees in the sand, weeping, in disbelief, in sorrow, and in surrender to the flicker of hope the wizard had somehow ignited in his heart of ashes.

Once Maglor's sobs had lessened, Gandalf raised him to his feet and held him steady for a brief moment before walking back and picking up his hat.

"Are we quite decided then?" Gandalf asked, placing the hat on his head. His eyes twinkled beneath the shadow of the brim, watching Maglor intently.

The elf nodded.

"Good. Then I shall be on my way..." A small white moth fluttered by and Gandalf followed it with his eyes. "Ah, good. Gwihir has gotten my message. May you have a safe journey, my boy."

"Wait." Maglor reached out a hand to stay the wizard. "You will not tell me who you are before leaving?"

The wizard chuckled. "My dear boy, I have told you. I'm Gandalf the Grey, a wizard and wanderer."

"But there is more to you than that," Maglor persisted.

"I could say the same of you." Gandalf touched his hand to his heart and extended it towards Maglor in the elvish farewell. "Narmarië, mellon nin. I shall see you in Valinor." With those parting words, Gandalf turned and began walking down the beach to where a set of steps had been chipped out of the cliff face. Maglor watched the wizard as he made his ascent and disappeared from view.

Unanswered questions spun chaotically in Maglor's mind, but rising above them was a sound purpose, something the last living son of Feanor had not possessed in centuries.

As he turned his face towards the Grey Havens, Maglor smiled. Doubts still lurked in his heart like fog clinging to a forgotten valley in the face of dawn. But the sun had risen and it was only a matter of time before the mists would evaporate and light pour in.

Light! How glorious it would be to see the light of Valinor again, where every breath was blessed. Maglor's soul swelled in a song that words could only feebly attempt to describe. There would be punishment, yes, but not beyond what he could bear, and he was going home. What a beautiful word, home. And what a blessing it would be to return to it.

**The End**

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A/N: I dedicate this FanFiction to all the lovely people who have read my previous stories. Thank you so much!


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